


Help me

by wizardkirk



Category: Monty Python RPF, Monty Python's Flying Circus
Genre: Anger, Blood, Depression, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Gen, Hurt, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 01:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16378691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wizardkirk/pseuds/wizardkirk
Summary: Michael is hurt. Mentally, physically. None of the Pythons notice, mainly because they're the biggest reason Michael feels so lonely and hurt.





	Help me

My knees were shaking when I walked through the BBC studios to find Terry. I spotted him reading his script for the day. We are currently working on the second season of Monty Python's Flying Circus.  
With a sick feeling in my stomach,   
I asked him if we could talk for a minute. I didn't know how to tell him, without him getting suspicious of anything else going on.   
He looked at me worriedly, and then I told him I can't film today. Worry soon changed into irritation and not long after, he became extremely pissed at me. Threw a real tantrum about the whole thing, he did. I told him I had to take care of the kids because Helen was away that day.

_"Fucking hell, Mike! Can't you ring a babysitter or whatever?! You can't bloody cancel like this, not just an hour and a half before filming, you dickhead!"_ He had yelled at me.

I couldn't argue against him, I was too weak for that. Pathetic. _Pathetic, pathetic Palin._

.

It's been a day since Terry's tantrum. The phone has been anxiously quiet today. No angry calls from the other Pythons yet, or anyone from the BBC. And right then, the phone rings. _Speak of the devil._ I walk to it, doubting if I should pick up. If it's the BBC, I'm screwed. If it's a Python, I'm dead. And if not . . I don't even know who else could be calling at this time.   
"Hello?" I say as I pick up. Sweat is forming on my forehead already.  
"Mr. Palin, there's a meeting at the studios in half an hour. You know where to be." says the person on the other side of the line, and hangs up. _Shit, that was the producer._ With a sickening feeling, I get ready and leave to the studios.

.

This door has been opened countless of times by me, yet this time I'm scared to. When I'm inside, my anxiety is close to its peak level.   
I'm getting glances of angry faces. The worst one to see might be Terry's, his dark eyes seem even darker now. Before I could even sit down, Terry starts yelling;  
"You knew goddamn well that we needed everyone for that episode! Knew damn well this would be one of our highlight episodes! Now our schedule is fucked up again because Mr. Michael fucking Palin couldn't think and call a babysitter for his kids!"  
Stay calm, Mike, stay calm. It's no use arguing with him. Not like you can, anyway.   
"Well, what do you have to say to this, Mr. Palin?" asks our producer.  
"I-I . . uh . . I-" _Stop stuttering, idiot._   
"Can't even give a bloody excuse, stupid." Terry scoffs. Right, that's it. I'm out of here.   
"I was with my wife at the hospital, Terry. She became ill." I say with a crack in my voice. "I had to look after the kids, because of that." Before any of them can respond, I'm gone. As soon as I set foot outside, I trip over something and smack my face on the ground. Cursing the living hell together, I slowly get up.   
_I'm glad no one saw that._ I bring my hand up to my face, feeling that it's covered in blood. "Fucking hell, that hurts like a stick in the arse." I manage to get to my car without tripping again.  
While driving I start to feel dizzy. It must be because of the fall. Not long after, my vision becomes blurry. The steering wheel slips out of my hands, that being the last thing I saw before blacking out.

.

_Michael . . Mike . . sweetheart . . ._

The sweetest voice calls out to me in the distance. My mind wants to go towards it, but my body is refusing to.

_Mike . . love . . wake up please . ._

My body seems to hate me, because it won't release me. 

_Honey . . come back to me . ._

A hand is placed on my cheeck, which seems to do the trick. Tingles spread through my body and I slowly open my eyes.

The bright lights sting my eyes and I notice that I'm in a hospital. My wife is sitting next to my bed, her hand connected an IV.  
"Hel . . why . . how . . are you here?"  
Yesterday she was very weak. And now she's here, holding my hand.  
"As soon as they told me what happened, they couldn't stop me from seeing you. I'll have to go back in two minutes, but I had to see if you are okay." She explains and plants a soft kiss on my forehead. We sit like this until the doctor comes and takes Helen back to her room, which is for the best, though I already miss her.  
  
"Ah, Mr. Palin, you're awake. I'm Doctor Griffin." says the man who just walked in. Too tired to reply, I send him a small smile. "I'm afraid I have some good and . . lets say . . less good news." Oh, great.  
"The accident caused three of your ribs to break. It also gave you a nasty wound on the side of your face, plus multiple bruises on your body. Your muscles might feel quite sore and painful in the next couple of days. We have bandaged your right hand, because you have broken that as well. You will get a cast on it later. But, after all this nasty news, I have some good news. You don't have to stay in the hospital for long, you may leave tomorrow at noon." explains Doctor Griffin. I close my eyes for a bit, taking in all the information I just received. How will I write with a broken hand? How will I do 'serious' acting with broken ribs? Well as long as I can hide it good enough from the Pythons, it'll be ok.

.

Back at the studios, the Welshman is feeling guilty. He didn't know that Helen is ill, and now he finds it a good reason why Michael couldn't do the show yesterday.

"Oi, Graham? D'ya think I've been a bit too harsh on Mike?" Terry asks his friend. "Honestly, yeah. Why don't you just ring him up and talk to him?" Graham suggests. "Hm . . he probably doesn't want to talk to me anyway. Guess I'll see him on Friday again."  
  
  The days passed by and it was Friday in no time. I got back home yesterday, to some very hungry children. Some leftover spaghetti had to do. Today is another day of filming, one I'm not at all looking forward to. I drop the kids off at my neighbour, who looks after the kids whenever she's available. They are sad I have to leave them again, so I promise them I'll take them out for ice cream when I get back. Realizing my car is K.O., and I can't drive anyway, I get to the nearest bus stop. The wound on my face has been stitched and the blood cleaned up. Although its turning purple now, I'm relieved no one recognises me as I get into the bus.

"Hey Mi-" John comes to a stop when he fully sees my face.  
"Bloody hell, what happened to your face, mate?" Exactly what I wanted to avoid, but I know that'd be impossible. "Tripped and fell. Nothing too serious." I shrug and pull my sleeve further over the cast on my arm, unnoticed by John.   
  


**tbc.**


End file.
